CHAPTER XIX.
HETTA CARBURY HEARS A LOVE TALE.
"I have half a mind to go back to-morrow morning," Felix said to hismother that Sunday evening after dinner. At that moment Roger waswalking round the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her ownroom.
"To-morrow morning, Felix! You are engaged to dine with theLongestaffes!"
"You could make any excuse you like about that."
"It would be the most uncourteous thing in the world. TheLongestaffes you know are the leading people in this part of thecountry. No one knows what may happen. If you should ever be livingat Carbury, how sad it would be that you should have quarrelled withthem."
"You forget, mother, that Dolly Longestaffe is about the mostintimate friend I have in the world."
"That does not justify you in being uncivil to the father and mother.And you should remember what you came here for."
"What did I come for?"
"That you might see Marie Melmotte more at your ease than you can intheir London house."
"That's all settled," said Sir Felix, in the most indifferent tonethat he could assume.
"Settled!"
"As far as the girl is concerned. I can't very well go to the oldfellow for his consent down here."
"Do you mean to say, Felix, that Marie Melmotte has accepted you?"
"I told you that before."
"My dear Felix. Oh, my boy!" In her joy the mother took her unwillingson in her arms and caressed him. Here was the first step taken notonly to success, but to such magnificent splendour as should makeher son to be envied by all young men, and herself to be envied byall mothers in England! "No, you didn't tell me before. But I am sohappy. Is she really fond of you? I don't wonder that any girl shouldbe fond of you."
"I can't say anything about that, but I think she means to stick toit."
"If she is firm, of course her father will give way at last. Fathersalways do give way when the girl is firm. Why should he oppose it?"
"I don't know that he will."
"You are a man of rank, with a title of your own. I suppose what hewants is a gentleman for his girl. I don't see why he should not beperfectly satisfied. With all his enormous wealth a thousand a yearor so can't make any difference. And then he made you one of theDirectors at his Board. Oh Felix;--it is almost too good to be true."
"I ain't quite sure that I care very much about being married, youknow."
"Oh, Felix, pray don't say that. Why shouldn't you like beingmarried? She is a very nice girl, and we shall all be so fond of her!Don't let any feeling of that kind come over you; pray don't. Youwill be able to do just what you please when once the question ofher money is settled. Of course you can hunt as often as you like,and you can have a house in any part of London you please. You mustunderstand by this time how very disagreeable it is to have to get onwithout an established income."
"I quite understand that."
"If this were once done you would never have any more trouble of thatkind. There would be plenty of money for everything as long as youlive. It would be complete success. I don't know how to say enough toyou, or to tell you how dearly I love you, or to make you understandhow well I think you have done it all." Then she caressed him again,and was almost beside herself in an agony of mingled anxiety and joy.If, after all, her beautiful boy, who had lately been her disgraceand her great trouble because of his poverty, should shine forth tothe world as a baronet with L20,000 a year, how glorious would it be!She must have known,--she did know,--how poor, how selfish a creaturehe was. But her gratification at the prospect of his splendourobliterated the sorrow with which the vileness of his charactersometimes oppressed her. Were he to win this girl with all herfather's money, neither she nor his sister would be the better forit, except in this, that the burden of maintaining him would be takenfrom her shoulders. But his magnificence would be established. He washer son, and the prospect of his fortune and splendour was sufficientto elate her into a very heaven of beautiful dreams. "But, Felix,"she continued, "you really must stay and go to the Longestaffes'to-morrow. It will only be one day.--And now were you to run away--"
"Run away! What nonsense you talk."
"If you were to start back to London at once I mean, it would be anaffront to her, and the very thing to set Melmotte against you. Youshould lay yourself out to please him;--indeed you should."
"Oh, bother!" said Sir Felix. But nevertheless he allowed himself tobe persuaded to remain. The matter was important even to him, andhe consented to endure the almost unendurable nuisance of spendinganother day at the Manor House. Lady Carbury, almost lost in delight,did not know where to turn for sympathy. If her cousin were not sostiff, so pig-headed, so wonderfully ignorant of the affairs ofthe world, he would have at any rate consented to rejoice with her.Though he might not like Felix,--who, as his mother admitted toherself, had been rude to her cousin,--he would have rejoiced for thesake of the family. But, as it was, she did not dare to tell him. Hewould have received her tidings with silent scorn. And even Henriettawould not be enthusiastic. She felt that though she would havedelighted to expatiate on this great triumph, she must be silent atpresent. It should now be her great effort to ingratiate herself withMr. Melmotte at the dinner party at Caversham.
During the whole of that evening Roger Carbury hardly spoke to hiscousin Hetta. There was not much conversation between them till quitelate, when Father Barham came in for supper. He had been over atBungay among his people there, and had walked back, taking Carbury onthe way. "What did you think of our bishop?" Roger asked him, ratherimprudently.
"Not much of him as a bishop. I don't doubt that he makes a very nicelord, and that he does more good among his neighbours than an averagelord. But you don't put power or responsibility into the hands of anyone sufficient to make him a bishop."
"Nine-tenths of the clergy in the diocese would be guided by him inany matter of clerical conduct which might come before him."
"Because they know that he has no strong opinion of his own, andwould not therefore desire to dominate theirs. Take any of yourbishops that has an opinion,--if there be one left,--and see how faryour clergy consent to his teaching!" Roger turned round and took uphis book. He was already becoming tired of his pet priest. He himselfalways abstained from saying a word derogatory to his new friend'sreligion in the man's hearing; but his new friend did not by anymeans return the compliment. Perhaps also Roger felt that were heto take up the cudgels for an argument he might be worsted in thecombat, as in such combats success is won by practised skill ratherthan by truth. Henrietta was also reading, and Felix was smokingelsewhere,--wondering whether the hours would ever wear themselvesaway in that castle of dulness, in which no cards were to be seen,and where, except at meal-times, there was nothing to drink. But LadyCarbury was quite willing to allow the priest to teach her that allappliances for the dissemination of religion outside his own churchmust be naught.
"I suppose our bishops are sincere in their beliefs," she said withher sweetest smile.
"I'm sure I hope so. I have no possible reason to doubt it as to thetwo or three whom I have seen,--nor indeed as to all the rest whom Ihave not seen."
"They are so much respected everywhere as good and pious men!"
"I do not doubt it. Nothing tends so much to respect as a goodincome. But they may be excellent men without being excellentbishops. I find no fault with them, but much with the system by whichthey are controlled. Is it probable that a man should be fitted toselect guides for other men's souls because he has succeeded byinfinite labour in his vocation in becoming the leader of a majorityin the House of Commons?"
"Indeed, no," said Lady Carbury, who did not in the least understandthe nature of the question put to her.
"And when you've got your bishop, is it likely that a man should beable to do his duty in that capacity who has no power of his own todecide whether a clergyman under him is or is not fit for his duty?"
"Hardly, indeed."
"The English people, or som
e of them,--that some being the richest,and, at present, the most powerful,--like to play at having a Church,though there is not sufficient faith in them to submit to the controlof a Church."
"Do you think men should be controlled by clergymen, Mr. Barham?"
"In matters of faith I do; and so, I suppose, do you; at least youmake that profession. You declare it to be your duty to submityourself to your spiritual pastors and masters."
"That, I thought, was for children," said Lady Carbury. "Theclergyman, in the catechism, says, 'My good child.'"
"It is what you were taught as a child before you had made professionof your faith to a bishop, in order that you might know your dutywhen you had ceased to be a child. I quite agree, however, thatthe matter, as viewed by your Church, is childish altogether, andintended only for children. As a rule, adults with you want noreligion."
"I am afraid that is true of a great many."
"It is marvellous to me that, when a man thinks of it, he should notbe driven by very fear to the comforts of a safer faith,--unless,indeed, he enjoy the security of absolute infidelity."
"That is worse than anything," said Lady Carbury with a sigh and ashudder.
"I don't know that it is worse than a belief which is no belief,"said the priest with energy;--"than a creed which sits so easilyon a man that he does not even know what it contains, and neverasks himself as he repeats it, whether it be to him credible orincredible."
"That is very bad," said Lady Carbury.
"We're getting too deep, I think," said Roger, putting down the bookwhich he had in vain been trying to read.
"I think it is so pleasant to have a little serious conversation onSunday evening," said Lady Carbury. The priest drew himself back intohis chair and smiled. He was quite clever enough to understand thatLady Carbury had been talking nonsense, and clever enough also to beaware of the cause of Roger's uneasiness. But Lady Carbury might beall the easier converted because she understood nothing and was fondof ambitious talking; and Roger Carbury might possibly be forced intoconviction by the very feeling which at present made him unwilling tohear arguments.
"I don't like hearing my Church ill-spoken of," said Roger.
"You wouldn't like me if I thought ill of it and spoke well of it,"said the priest.
"And, therefore, the less said the sooner mended," said Roger, risingfrom his chair. Upon this Father Barham took his departure and walkedaway to Beccles. It might be that he had sowed some seed. It might bethat he had, at any rate, ploughed some ground. Even the attempt toplough the ground was a good work which would not be forgotten.
The following morning was the time on which Roger had fixed forrepeating his suit to Henrietta. He had determined that it should beso, and though the words had been almost on his tongue during thatSunday afternoon, he had repressed them because he would do as hehad determined. He was conscious, almost painfully conscious, ofa certain increase of tenderness in his cousin's manner towardshim. All that pride of independence, which had amounted almost toroughness, when she was in London, seemed to have left her. When hegreeted her morning and night, she looked softly into his face. Shecherished the flowers which he gave her. He could perceive that ifhe expressed the slightest wish in any matter about the house shewould attend to it. There had been a word said about punctuality,and she had become punctual as the hand of the clock. There was nota glance of her eye, nor a turn of her hand, that he did not watch,and calculate its effect as regarded himself. But because she wastender to him and observant, he did not by any means allow himselfto believe that her heart was growing into love for him. He thoughtthat he understood the working of her mind. She could see how greatwas his disgust at her brother's doings; how fretted he was by hermother's conduct. Her grace, and sweetness, and sense, took part withhim against those who were nearer to herself, and therefore,--inpity,--she was kind to him. It was thus he read it, and he read italmost with exact accuracy.
"Hetta," he said after breakfast, "come out into the garden awhile."
"Are not you going to the men?"
"Not yet, at any rate. I do not always go to the men as you call it."She put on her hat and tripped out with him, knowing well that shehad been summoned to hear the old story. She had been sure, as soonas she found the white rose in her room, that the old story would berepeated again before she left Carbury;--and, up to this time, shehad hardly made up her mind what answer she would give to it. Thatshe could not take his offer, she thought she did know. She knew wellthat she loved the other man. That other man had never asked her forher love, but she thought that she knew that he desired it. But inspite of all this there had in truth grown up in her bosom a feelingof tenderness towards her cousin so strong that it almost tempted herto declare to herself that he ought to have what he wanted, simplybecause he wanted it. He was so good, so noble, so generous, sodevoted, that it almost seemed to her that she could not be justifiedin refusing him. And she had gone entirely over to his side in regardto the Melmottes. Her mother had talked to her of the charm of Mr.Melmotte's money, till her very heart had been sickened. There wasnothing noble there; but, as contrasted with that, Roger's conductand bearing were those of a fine gentleman who knew neither fearnor shame. Should such a one be doomed to pine for ever because agirl could not love him,--a man born to be loved, if nobility andtenderness and truth were lovely!
"Hetta," he said, "put your arm here." She gave him her arm. "I was alittle annoyed last night by that priest. I want to be civil to him,and now he is always turning against me."
"He doesn't do any harm, I suppose?"
"He does do harm if he teaches you and me to think lightly ofthose things which we have been brought up to revere." So, thoughtHenrietta, it isn't about love this time; it's only about the Church."He ought not to say things before my guests as to our way ofbelieving, which I wouldn't under any circumstances say as to his.I didn't quite like your hearing it."
"I don't think he'll do me any harm. I'm not at all that way given.I suppose they all do it. It's their business."
"Poor fellow! I brought him here just because I thought it was a pitythat a man born and bred like a gentleman should never see the insideof a comfortable house."
"I liked him;--only I didn't like his saying stupid things about thebishop."
"And I like him." Then there was a pause. "I suppose your brotherdoes not talk to you much about his own affairs."
"His own affairs, Roger? Do you mean money? He never says a word tome about money."
"I meant about the Melmottes."
"No; not to me. Felix hardly ever speaks to me about anything."
"I wonder whether she has accepted him."
"I think she very nearly did accept him in London."
"I can't quite sympathise with your mother in all her feelings aboutthis marriage, because I do not think that I recognise as she doesthe necessity of money."
"Felix is so disposed to be extravagant."
"Well; yes. But I was going to say that though I cannot bringmyself to say anything to encourage her about this heiress, I quiterecognise her unselfish devotion to his interests."
"Mamma thinks more of him than of anything," said Hetta, not in theleast intending to accuse her mother of indifference to herself.
"I know it; and though I happen to think myself that her other childwould better repay her devotion,"--this he said, looking up to Hettaand smiling,--"I quite feel how good a mother she is to Felix. Youknow, when she first came the other day we almost had a quarrel."
"I felt that there was something unpleasant."
"And then Felix coming after his time put me out. I am getting oldand cross, or I should not mind such things."
"I think you are so good,--and so kind." As she said this she leanedupon his arm almost as though she meant to tell him that she lovedhim.
"I have been angry with myself," he said, "and so I am making you myfather confessor. Open confession is good for the soul sometimes, andI think that you would understand me better than your mother."
"I do understand you; but don't think there is any fault to confess."
"You will not exact any penance?" She only looked at him and smiled."I am going to put a penance on myself all the same. I can'tcongratulate your brother on his wooing over at Caversham, as I knownothing about it, but I will express some civil wish to him aboutthings in general."
"Will that be a penance?"
"If you could look into my mind you'd find that it would. I'm full offretful anger against him for half-a-dozen little frivolous things.Didn't he throw his cigar on the path? Didn't he lie in bed on Sundayinstead of going to church?"
"But then he was travelling all the Saturday night."
"Whose fault was that? But don't you see it is the triviality of theoffence which makes the penance necessary. Had he knocked me overthe head with a pickaxe, or burned the house down, I should have hada right to be angry. But I was angry because he wanted a horse onSunday;--and therefore I must do penance."
There was nothing of love in all this. Hetta, however, did notwish him to talk of love. He was certainly now treating her as afriend,--as a most intimate friend. If he would only do that withoutmaking love to her, how happy could she be! But his determinationstill held good. "And now," said he, altering his tone altogether, "Imust speak about myself." Immediately the weight of her hand upon hisarm was lessened. Thereupon he put his left hand round and pressedher arm to his. "No," he said; "do not make any change towards mewhile I speak to you. Whatever comes of it we shall at any rate becousins and friends."
"Always friends!" she said.
"Yes;--always friends. And now listen to me for I have much to say.I will not tell you again that I love you. You know it, or else youmust think me the vainest and falsest of men. It is not only thatI love you, but I am so accustomed to concern myself with one thingonly, so constrained by the habits and nature of my life to confinemyself to single interests, that I cannot as it were escape from mylove. I am thinking of it always, often despising myself becauseI think of it so much. For, after all, let a woman be ever sogood,--and you to me are all that is good,--a man should not allowhis love to dominate his intellect."
"Oh, no!"
"I do. I calculate my chances within my own bosom almost as a manmight calculate his chances of heaven. I should like you to know mejust as I am, the weak and the strong together. I would not win youby a lie if I could. I think of you more than I ought to do. I amsure,--quite sure that you are the only possible mistress of thishouse during my tenure of it. If I am ever to live as other men do,and to care about the things which other men care for, it must be asyour husband."
"Pray,--pray do not say that."
"Yes; I think that I have a right to say it,--and a right to expectthat you should believe me. I will not ask you to be my wife if youdo not love me. Not that I should fear aught for myself, but thatyou should not be pressed to make a sacrifice of yourself becauseI am your friend and cousin. But I think it is quite possible youmight come to love me,--unless your heart be absolutely given awayelsewhere."
"What am I to say?"
"We each of us know of what the other is thinking. If Paul Montaguehas robbed me of my love--?"
"Mr. Montague has never said a word."
"If he had, I think he would have wronged me. He met you in my house,and I think must have known what my feelings were towards you."
"But he never has."
"We have been like brothers together,--one brother being very mucholder than the other, indeed; or like father and son. I think heshould place his hopes elsewhere."
"What am I to say? If he have such hope he has not told me. I thinkit almost cruel that a girl should be asked in that way."
"Hetta, I should not wish to be cruel to you. Of course I know theway of the world in such matters. I have no right to ask you aboutPaul Montague,--no right to expect an answer. But it is all the worldto me. You can understand that I should think you might learn to loveeven me, if you loved no one else." The tone of his voice was manly,and at the same time full of entreaty. His eyes as he looked at herwere bright with love and anxiety. She not only believed him as tothe tale which he now told her; but she believed in him altogether.She knew that he was a staff on which a woman might safely lean,trusting to it for comfort and protection in life. In that moment sheall but yielded to him. Had he seized her in his arms and kissed herthen, I think she would have yielded. She did all but love him. Sheso regarded him that had it been some other woman that he craved,she would have used every art she knew to have backed his suit, andwould have been ready to swear that any woman was a fool who refusedhim. She almost hated herself because she was unkind to one who sothoroughly deserved kindness. As it was she made him no answer, butcontinued to walk beside him trembling. "I thought I would tell ityou all, because I wish you to know exactly the state of my mind.I would show you if I could all my heart and all my thoughts aboutyourself as in a glass case. Do not coy your love for me if youcan feel it. When you know, dear, that a man's heart is set upon awoman as mine is set on you, so that it is for you to make his lifebright or dark, for you to open or to shut the gates of his earthlyParadise, I think you will be above keeping him in darkness for thesake of a girlish scruple."
"Oh, Roger!"
"If ever there should come a time in which you can say it truly,remember my truth to you and say it boldly. I at least shall neverchange. Of course if you love another man and give yourself to him,it will be all over. Tell me that boldly also. I have said it allnow. God bless you, my own heart's darling. I hope,--I hope I may bestrong enough through it all to think more of your happiness than ofmy own." Then he parted from her abruptly, taking his way over one ofthe bridges, and leaving her to find her way into the house alone.
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